Prose

Tasmanian Night-time Festivities

Sleek wetted feathered beauties swoop their form across the suns awakening to fan Earths crust. Sharp beaked scoopings and sweet thank chirpings all chorus amongst misting clouds. Mountain crested tree lined wonders sweep the withins and withouts, and rolling whispers echo the valley whilst the shrill calls of morning resound.

Swaying breezes catch the light and shadow daytimes’ screams. Cooing, crowing, cawings of the day, all drift upon the moments sung, to dance each drop of dew on ley and to revel amidst the rising sun as each song eats its fill. Amidst the daytime waltz that has begun, the sleek wetted feathered beauties revel amid the magnificent Wintered sun.

Thundering vibrants add their voice to streaking lasered tempered light, all swim and sway across cobalt blue heralding a cleared skied night. A distant crest embosses the day within the passing shivers of fading light, all shading the memories held back of past moment recalls that are recollections of fading life.

Each flicker and ray of a sleepy sun, drapes their warmth across the land, with each spark exchanged for star lit beauty and a bloodied moons expanse. Clear and dark the sky shines magic that highlights the feathered beauties upon each bough of a stark old tree and whilst the moons glows mirrors its image across waters set beneath its weight, I take in all that can be seen.

As if grasped by the stark old tree, the moon transforms as I perceive and as I reach for the silver birched leaves, its bounty rests upon my palms and at once becomes one with me. Where I dance each fingered hands, the moon does dance across each bough, and as if in trance and whilst under my imagination, the bloodied moons festivities espouse.

Its ancient voice catches the breeze and rattles the nighttimes reechoes, its susurrations of the indistinct, drift across the night-time meadows, and as the night entraps all sound and the silken leaves roam in silence, a morning glow halos the ground as the day light voices arise us. So in protest I release the moon and my dancing fingers rest their motions, a rustling amongst the stark trees branches realise the rising moment. Once more the sounds of cooing birds sing their songs for me, but I await the night-times rising  moon and my dancing fingered festivities.

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